Stalking Susan (11 page)

We went to bed angry.

S
UICIDE
S
USAN’S COPY
of the book
Final Exit
was not page worn, which made her death seem impulsive instead of deliberate. Her suicide notes were exactly by the book, as her sister, Sharon, described. I glanced at the education conference schedule, then set it aside to read the police and autopsy reports.

Susan had washed down Seconal and phenobarbital, strong sedatives, with a great deal of vodka. Then she had placed a plastic bag over her face. The maid found her in her hotel bed the next morning. Susan was fully dressed. The dead bolt had not been turned. The medical examiner determined she had probably had sexual intercourse the day she died, though he found no semen on her body. His report said her pelvic area was swollen and red. A flag to me, since the woman Susan Niemczyk’s mother and sister described didn’t seem prone to one-night stands.

The police had looked for homicide clues, but hotel rooms pose special investigative problems. With so many people passing through, fingerprint, hair, and fiber evidence can be hard to connect to anyone except a registered guest or hotel employee.

Hotel bedspreads aren’t usually washed between guests, so it’s not unusual to find multiple semen stains from previous trysts. My colleague Mike Flagg had even aired a sweeps piece on that very topic and found five stars didn’t guarantee clean linen. He rented local hotel rooms ranging from sleazy to swanky, shined ultraviolet lights on the bedspreads to spot the stains, then followed up with chemical analysis. He even called a raunchy talk radio guy the morning of his airdate to promo the piece with bawdy guy humor.

I started a board for Suicide Susan.

SUSAN NIEMCZYK

AGE:
36

TEACHER

BLONDE

HUNTINGTON’S DISEASE

SUICIDE/FINAL EXIT

ROCHESTER HOTEL

In the bottom of the box I found the Susan pendant along with a convention nametag reading
HELLO MY NAME IS SUSAN NIEMCZYK.
I held the items in my hands, recalling the name
SUSAN
pinned to a waitress’s blouse, and
SUSAN
tattooed on a runaway’s arm. Could they have been advertisements, attracting a killer’s interest?

CHAPTER 17

N
ormally I wear contact lenses, but this morning I was wearing my brainy-girl glasses for my meeting with Police Chief Vince Capacasa at the cop shop. I wanted to impress him as a serious journalist.

“You can’t be serious?” the chief said. “Evidence stays in the property room. Evidence is not a prop for TV ratings. No raincoat. Now move along.”

A marble chess set sat on the credenza behind his desk. I also noticed a game already in progress on his computer screen; his long-distance opponent probably on hold until I left.

“Now Chief,” I began.

Chiefs dig it when reporters call them Chief. They view each utterance as a frank admission that they outrank you.

“I’m coming to you for help,” I continued.

Appealing for help that only they can provide also appeals to their ego.

“Open investigation,” he told me. “No comment.”

“This story might enable you to close your investigation.”

Often if the cops think there’s something in it for them, they’ll play ball.

“Unlikely. Move along,” he repeated.

None of my tactics was working, so I dangled a chance to go off the record.

“This is not an ambush. I didn’t come here with a photographer to try to catch you unprepared about a cold case. The door’s shut. It’s just you and me in here, Chief.” I emphasized his title again.

“Don’t you have some live shot you need to get to?” he asked, sarcastically. “The TCF Bank in the Cub Foods in White Bear Lake got robbed today. Why don’t you stand out in front of it and talk about dye packs and an undisclosed amount of money?”

“You’d just love it if I reported about crime outside of Minneapolis.” I leaned across his desk and stared him straight in the eye. If they won’t play softball, sometimes you have to play hardball. “You can’t get rid of me that easily. This story is slated for air. You can look like you’re cooperating, or you can look like you’re stonewalling.”

He leaned across his desk and held my gaze. Our faces were about a foot apart. Once again, I was glad I was wearing makeup.

“If you have evidence of a crime, you’re legally obligated to turn it over.”

“I don’t have evidence. All I have is a hunch.”

“Maybe you should just tell me your hunch instead of worrying your pretty little head.”

So much for the power of brainy-girl glasses. The chief leaned back in his chair, the pleased expression of checkmate on his face.

Damn it. I was going to have to level with him.

“R
EMEMBER OUR DEAL,”
the chief said. “No match. No story.”

He’d scoffed at my theory that the raincoat found on Sinner Susan actually belonged to Waitress Susan.

“And if it does match,” I answered, “I have a story and you have a serial killer.”

Much better deal for me. If I lost I’d simply scramble for another sweeps story. But if he lost he’d be fending off political trouble forever because serial killers don’t just kill people; they kill tourism. And right now the movers and shakers of the Twin Cities were preparing to host the Republican National Convention. Traditionally, Minnesota’s considered a Democratic stronghold; but Republicans have bigger expense accounts. And Scandinavians are nothing if not practical.

The chief unfolded the raincoat and laid it on the conference table. Most definitely an anticlimactic moment. The label read London Fog and it looked like virtually every other London Fog raincoat ever sewn. Nothing unique. Nothing memorable. Certainly nothing identifiable. I had a feeling this showdown might end badly for me.

“Can you check the pockets?”

I had promised not to touch anything; the chief had promised to let us roll tape. Malik knew the drill: no matter what the cops said during the next few minutes, he was not to stop rolling unless I said so.

One at a time, the chief turned the four pockets inside out. Empty. Empty. Empty. A blue button.

“That’s all,” said the chief. “Satisfied?”

The room was quiet. My mind was reaching. For what, I didn’t know, but I sensed I was close to something critical.

The button was small and royal blue. It clearly did not belong with the raincoat. Color crime scene photos slowly came into focus in the back of my mind and transformed into one of those rare “aha” moments. Waitress Susan lay dead in the alley, wearing a blue and brown buttoned-up sweater. One button was missing. A small royal blue button.

“I’m satisfied.”

CHAPTER 18

I
suppose it’s egotistical to think you can recognize evil by staring it in the eye, but it panned out for me five years ago in the case of a missing seven-year-old girl down by Mankato. Her mom’s boyfriend postered the town with her picture, and he organized extensive searches. He also creeped me out big-time during an interview, and I sensed he was hiding something. Ends up, it was her body.

Identifying a villain with eye contact—it’s just a theory—is certainly not foolproof. And the truth is, I’d been fooled more times than not. There had been the Munchausen mom in Brainerd, Minnesota, four years ago. She looked me straight in the eye and swore she had no idea why her daughter was always sick. I believed her. And don’t remind me about that high-flying St. Paul attorney who killed his wife last Valentine’s Day. He was
so
the perfect source: so charming, so connected, so good on camera. I never once sensed scoundrel in his soul.

Despite my uneven track record, I still wanted to test my premise on Mayor Skubic. I couldn’t shake his personal connection with the first Susan and his proximity to the crime. The trick was looking deep into his eyes without him smelling suspicion. I knew just the right time and place.

Mayor Skubic would be home Halloween night, handing out treats to the kiddies and handshakes to their parents. In Minnesota all politicians from the governor on down view Halloween as prime campaign time, second only to donning a plaid shirt and sweating in a Fourth of July parade. Some elected officials also help serve Thanksgiving dinner in homeless shelters, but that’s because they’re hoping to get on TV on a slow news day, not because they expect to win an election with the indigent vote.

When I offered to take my niece and nephew trick-or-treating, my sister, Robyn, seemed skeptical.

“Aren’t you busy with ratings?” During sweeps I usually swept family under the rug. But with no kids of my own, and none likely now, I missed them.

“I can take one night off. I haven’t seen them for ages.”

“Come on, Mom,” pleaded Darcy, age seven. “We never get to do anything.”

I cheated by having them listen in on the upstairs phone.

“Robyn, maybe you can offer to work that night and trade for a Saturday off.” She’s a nurse at a local hospital and, like me, works her share of weekends.

“Please, Mom, can we?” asked five-year-old Davy.

“All right,” she agreed.

So I had my props. All I needed was a costume.

Mayor Skubic was dressed in a white hockey goalie mask, like Jason in the horror film
Friday the 13th.
Elsewhere that might be a poor costume choice for a politician. Most go for Uncle Sam or a rubber mask of whoever’s currently occupying the White House. But Skubic had been a college hockey hero and hockey rules in Minnesota. One of our competitors once aired a story showing undercover video of underage hockey jocks buying drinks in a local sports bar without getting carded. Viewers called in angry at the station for violating the players’ privacy. So no surprise, nobody seemed bothered that one night a year the mayor resembled a serial killer. The rest of the year he resembled a paunchy, aging athlete, but that didn’t require any special costume.

His mask made eye contact more difficult than I had expected. I was glad I went with my second choice for Halloween costume. I had almost worn a Lone Ranger mask and Boyer’s State Patrol uniform with my hair tucked under his hat. Instead I put on a nurse’s uniform I spotted hanging in my sister’s coat closet when I picked up the kids. I added a toy stethoscope that belonged to my niece, a big red wig Boyer had given me as a joke, a white half mask, and a heavy dose of fuchsia lipstick. Not a chance I’d be recognized. Especially not as part of this trio. Davy wore a coonskin cap and a fringed suede shirt my sister had sewn. Darcy wore a tiara and a yellow princess dress. They both carried pillow cases in anticipation of a heavy haul of candy.

Halloween is no time for an elected official to go cheap with tiny Tootsie Rolls or SweeTarts. Mayor Skubic shrewdly handed out full-size candy bars made by Minnesota-based Pearson Candies. He curtsied in front of Darcy, gave her a Nut Goodie and tossed a Salted Nut Roll in Davy’s bag while singing about Davy Crockett, a rifle-wielding politician and king of the wild frontier.

When my turn came, the mayor held my toy stethoscope against his heart. “I think it might be broken,” he said.

“It’s not real,” I answered.

“I meant my heart.” He dropped something in my bag. Later I found a Skubic campaign button and his business card with a phone number scribbled on the back. I’d rather have a Mint Pattie.

So what
did
I see in his eyes?

We had maintained eye contact for less than ten seconds. He looked away first, not that it was a contest. His eyes definitely burned—but most likely from a jack-o’-lantern reflecting from the kitchen bay window—not with evil, but reflecting his supposedly broken heart.

Like I said, it was just a theory.

I
DIDN’T WANT
to linger on the mayor’s block, so we hit a handful of houses there then drove to another neighborhood and started fresh. It wasn’t even six o’clock, plenty of time to make good on my promise to net Davy and Darcy enough candy to last till Christmas. Call me Aunt Santa.

“You tell me when you’ve had enough,” I told them, noting their already bulging bags.

“We’re not tired,” Darcy said.

Davy agreed. “I’m strong.”

A small house down the street captured their attention. Decorated with pumpkin lights, bats hung from strings, and ceramic black cats adorned the sidewalk.

“Wow.” Davy moved toward the action. “It looks scary.”

“Let’s go,” I answered.

A line of children, mesmerized by the haunted house décor, stood in front of us. As we got closer I watched the man handing out popcorn balls and felt certain I’d met him before.

“Come back anytime,” he told the trick-or-treaters.

I guessed he was in his midthirties. He wore thick glasses and a black cape. He didn’t need a mask because a reddish scar stretched across the bridge of his nose. My memory clicked. When we reached the door, I stooped down, pretending to tie Davy’s shoes, but actually keeping my eyes pinned to the man’s feet. I spied a monitoring bracelet around the guy’s ankle and knew I needed to call Xiong.

I herded my niece and nephew back to the car and told them I’d give a prize to whoever had the most Reese’s peanut butter cups. They started counting in the backseat while I hit Xiong’s number on my speed dial.

“It’s Riley. Can you call up the Minnesota Corrections Web site? I have an address I need to check on the sex offender’s database.”

“I’m in the middle of a story for ten,” he said. “Can’t you do it yourself?”

“I’m out of the office, trick-or-treating. It’s a long story. This could be big.”

I gave him the address and waited.

“Hey Aunt Riley, so far I have six Reese’s and Davy only has four.”

“Interesting, honey. Keep counting.”

Xiong confirmed that the address matched that of Paul Friendly, a level 3 sex offender, convicted of molesting boys. In the legal world of sex crimes, level 3’s are deemed most dangerous, most likely to reoffend. A few years ago I’d covered a community meeting where residents protested his moving into their neighborhood. Headlines and promotions read along the lines of “Friendly Unwelcome.” Apparently he had moved again. Inconspicuously. The idea of him handing out Halloween candy repulsed me.

“Now Davy has more than me.”

“Keep counting.” I called the Channel 3 assignment desk to fill them in and page Malik to meet me a couple blocks away. I took off my wig, put a jacket over my nurse uniform, and rubbed off the lipstick. It might be Halloween, but I didn’t want to look like a clown when I confronted Mr. Friendly on camera.

“We’re done, Aunt Riley. Guess what? Davy and I have the same amount.”

“That’s great. Why don’t you count MilkyWays next?”

“I want to go to more houses,” Davy said.

“We’ll do that later,” I said. “A friend of mine is coming to take our picture at the scary house.”

“We get to go back?” Darcy asked.

“Sure do.”

Malik groused about shooting late on Halloween. “I got kids, too, you know.”

I apologized. “This is a once-in-a-year opportunity. We’ve got to get this on camera now.”

First Malik shot wide from the back of the van, videotaping the line of kids lured by the elaborate decorations. We wanted a close-up of Mr. Friendly, so Malik put on hat cam—a baseball cap with a pinhole lens in the front and a cable through the back. It wasn’t great for low-light situations, but we had no choice.

“Come on, kids.” I considered leaving them in the car, but decided I better keep them in sight. Technically, I was a babysitter, not a reporter. “You can each get another popcorn ball, but then wait behind me while I talk to that man. I need to ask him some questions.”

Malik signaled that the camera was rolling. He turned his head back and forth to get some nice cover of children wearing football jerseys and dinosaur outfits. Just as we reached the steps, our man told a young boy dressed in camouflage, “Come visit again.”

Mr. Friendly patted Davy on the head. “You must live nearby. I think this is your second time here tonight.”

“No,” Davy said, “my aunt just wants to talk to you.” He pointed at me. Damn. Kindergarten curriculum must not include undercover skills.

“Really.” Mr. Friendly looked warily at me.

“That’s right. You’re a level 3 sex offender.” I didn’t ask it, I said it.

He didn’t deny it. The mom and pop crowd in the yard gathered to listen.

“I’m Riley Spartz from Channel 3. You’re Paul Friendly and you’re not supposed to have contact with children.”

“They’re approaching me. I’m not approaching them.”

“Let’s see what the Corrections department has to say. If luring kids with candy isn’t violating the letter of your parole, I’m sure it’s violating the spirit.”

“It’s Halloween. Everybody’s handing out candy.”

“You’re not everybody.”

“Excuse me,” said the father of a boy wearing a Spiderman suit. “Did you say he’s a sex offender?”

“Level 3.”

His fist hit Mr. Friendly’s face a split second later making a crunching noise and squirting blood onto Darcy’s yellow princess dress. She screamed and dropped her bag of candy. Davy started to cry. A woman wearing Playboy bunny ears kicked Mr. Friendly in the crotch. I overheard someone in the back calling 911. Malik and I each grabbed a kid and raced for the van. He heaved the big camera onto his shoulder just in time to roll tape of somebody’s grandma throwing a pumpkin through Mr. Friendly’s front window.

“B
ASICALLY, YOU STARTED
a riot.” Noreen relished playing Monday-morning quarterback. “But you did beat the competition.”

“Only because she
started
the riot,” said Miles Lewis, Channel 3’s media attorney. “Of course she beat the competition.” He was a short black man in a fancy suit. Him being in the news director’s office didn’t bode well for me.

Actually, I’d hoped to do more research and hold the story a few days until the first night of the ratings book. But two squad cars responded and the other stations followed on the heels of their sirens. I scrambled to feed tape back from a Channel 3 truck and do a live shot for the top of the news. Noreen was right about the competition. We had the story. They had the aftermath.

“It’s just too bad we weren’t able to promote it,” she continued. “An early show tease or prime-time spot would have let viewers in on our scoop.”

Malik and I suffered a setback when we discovered our hidden camera tape didn’t have audio. Technical gremlins must have been out Halloweening, so I had to paraphrase for viewers Mr. Friendly’s explanation of why he wasn’t scum. What we did have on tape was literally a knockout: an exclusive shot of fist slamming face.

“The story’s got legs,” I said. “I’m happy to do some follow-up stories.”

“That’s what we need to talk about,” Miles said. “It might be better to hand the story off to someone else.”

“No way. It’s my story. I found it.”

I also lost it.

Trouble was, Mr. Friendly’s attorney called Noreen earlier that morning, using big lawyer words and threatening to sue Channel 3. Even Miles called that idea laughable. More problematic for us, Mr. Friendly wanted to press criminal charges against his attackers. Our tape was potential evidence and Malik and I, potential witnesses.

Two things stood in our favor. Even if we had to give up the raw tape, our shot wasn’t wide enough to capture the gentleman who had thrown the first punch. And if called to testify, I honestly couldn’t remember what he looked like.

“Honestly.”

“You’re sure?” Miles asked.

“Absolutely. It was dark. I was distracted by my niece and nephew.”

“That’s another thing,” Noreen said. “I don’t want you taking young children along on stories. Ride-alongs need to be in college. Station policy.”

“It didn’t start out as a story,” I insisted. “It started out as a family outing. If it weren’t for them, we wouldn’t have the story.”